


in the end of the night we’ll rest our bones

by girlsarewolves



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Porn with Feelings, throw me in the dumpster where i belong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 19:53:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6297943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlsarewolves/pseuds/girlsarewolves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Objectively, she knows this is not a good idea. She tends to ignore her brain sending warnings her way. She follows her gut, her heart. Instinct.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the end of the night we’ll rest our bones

**Author's Note:**

> It has been a really, really long time since I wrote anything remotely close to smut, so my apologies for the lack of quality porn. This just came to me, and I had to write something for this ship - which, I'd like to add, totally blindsided me. But I love it a LOT. Feedback always appreciated! 
> 
> Minor warnings for very brief, non-graphic mention of Wesley's death from season one as well as references to Frank's murders.

* * *

(Objectively, she knows this is not a good idea.)  
  
Warm, strong hands are on her hips; there's restraint in the way the fingers curl, holding lightly when she knows they want to grip. Tight. And never let go.  
  
There are scars underneath the pads of her fingertips. She traces them, gently, and slides her hands down lower, scrapes her nails over the even, unmarked skin. Tries to signal she won't break.  
  
(She tends to ignore her brain sending warnings her way. She follows her gut, her heart. Instinct.)  
  
Teeth bite at her neck. The pressure is sudden, sharp; he gets the message. Then the pressure lightens, becomes a kiss, a little suck, soothing her skin and still sending her heart racing.  
  
Her legs wrap around him, slightly shifting the angle of his thrusts, and they both moan. She sucks in a breath and then bites back, on his shoulder. She feels him shudder in response, feels his hands slide up her back and wrap around, clutching her body to his.  
  
(Killer. Criminal. Punisher. She still thinks of him simply as Frank, still welcomes him into her home.)  
  
Pressure is building between her legs, at the pit of her stomach; warm and fluttering and urgent. She bites down harder on his shoulder, moans against his skin.  
  
A sound like a growl vibrates through his chest all the way to his mouth as he kisses her ear. Fingers are curling into her skin now; calloused and rough and strong and still so full of restraint because she knows how easily he can break and hurt with those hands. There's no pain in his grip.  
  
(In her defense, she hadn't planned on this happening. It just...did. She'd do it again in a heartbeat.)  
  
Karen remembers all the people he's killed; the damage he can dish out. She remembers Grotto, and all her empty promises. She remembers dragging that man through a hospital and away from gunfire. She remembers telling Frank he was dead to her if he didn't stop.  
  
He didn't stop.  
  
(This is not a good idea.)  
  
He's still living and breathing, and at this moment he's inside of her, cradling her, his mouth moving to hers. Breath warm against her lips, he whispers her name.  
  
(She cares. She shouldn't. She does. She cares about him. She remembers a cold, arrogant voice telling her horrible things would happen to her friends, remembers her coworker lying bloody and dead next to her, and remembers her finger on the trigger.)  
  
"Frank," she whispers back. The sound of his name makes him more human; the way he strokes her hair, cradles her head and kisses her tells Karen it reminds him that he still is, too. So she whispers it again, "Frank, Frank," and now it's louder, breathier.  
  
Close; she's so close.  
  
A hand slides between them; the pad of his thumb brushes over her clit, sends a spike of pleasure rushing through her. Pressure rises; his thumb keeps stroking her.  
  
("He could be any one of us," she'd told Matt. Meeting Frank Castle only convinced her even more of that.)  
  
A scream builds up with the pressure, and then it's there, on her tongue; she screams his name while her fingernails leave new, faint lines of blood across his back. Later, she'll wince at the damage done, and he'll laugh and tell her they won't even scar, only heal. Now, she just claws, and claws and shudders under him.  
  
He pants against her neck, shaking harder than she is; something wet hits her skin. He rolls them over before his body goes limp, bone-weary and a satisfied look on his face even while he cries.  
  
(Objectively, she knows she can't be objective about Frank Castle.)  
  
"I missed you." She says this when their breathing patterns return to normal, the sweat mostly dry, the feeling coming back to their limbs. She likes the way his fingers feel threading through her hair.  
  
A response doesn't come. He just holds her against him. Warm fingers lightly wrapped around the arm she has draped over his chest. It's enough; this, here, the silence and the warmth of his body under hers, his breathing reminding her that under the skull, the armor, the Punisher, he's Frank.  
  
They're only human.  
  
(She never meant to fall in love with the guy. But she's never exactly done what she's suppose to.)

**Author's Note:**

> (Also, I may have a weakness for rough guys crying during/after sex. I blame it on Sandor/Sansa fanfic.)


End file.
